


Referendum

by Tammany



Series: Brexit and Trump [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, referendum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-17 23:11:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7289851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because the vote simply demanded I write something for Mycroft--I could not imagine him not having to cope with too many feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Referendum

Greg knew Mycroft had been awake since before dawn. Not that it was any surprise, that day of all days. Mycroft was the British Government, and the polls had to run smoothly and well--rain or no rain, flooding or not. No matter what the outcome, Mycroft would be determined that there be no tacky American-style questions about the legitimacy of the referendum. As a policeman Greg had his own concerns. It was not an easy day, with the MET helping evacuate flood victims, though for the most part it passed peacefully. There were no more martyred MPs, in any case.

He’d called Mycroft at lunch to see if he wanted to go out for a pint and a roast beef sarnie. He had not been surprised to be turned down. Likewise he had expected to return home to Mycroft’s flat to eat dinner alone, watching a movie on the telly and only occasionally checking the news. When the final results were declared he was glad he’d voted one way, but placed a bet with the bookies the other way. Thanks to the odds going in he’d come out with a tidy little profit to compensate for the inescapable regrets.

He poured himself a glass of Mycroft’s good brandy. (French…) He took a shower, using the good Polish lavender body wash.  He dried off and climbed into the loose, cool cotton robe he’d bought on a holiday in Greece. He slipped out to the balcony and smoked not one, but three cigarettes from a pack he’d bought in Belgium.

He wondered if this was the end of an era. If he’d ever travel in Europe again as someone who had a right—who belonged.

He knew Mycroft would have a much better, more complete understanding of all the things that would happen next over the years to come. The probabilities, the possibilities, and the unlikely consequences.

Over the rush of rain he could hear people partying over at the Diogenes—he could _hear_ those silent, stodgy men popping champagne and singing stupid old songs from WWI and WWII. It would not be all of the members—but there were enough old men who’d felt they’d lost their nation when they joined the EU.

God knows, Greg thought, it’s not like it’s a well-run union. Greece dead broke. Merkel tight-fisting everyone. France and Italy both pulling whatever way suited them this week. Poland—why had they allowed Poland in, anyway? Refugees piled up on the far side of the Chunnel.

Would they close the Chunnel now? Blow it up to make sure no refugees or foreign nationals could sneak across unchecked?

What would they become now?

Dry and smelling of tobacco and lavender, he slipped into bed, and made himself sleep. It was light and restless. He dreamed of Donovan shipped back to Jamaica, where her parents had been born. He woke, and slept again.

In the thin dawn he woke once more, and rose. He walked down the hallway, and opened the door to Mycroft’s private office, peeking in warily. He seldom intruded even this much—over this threshold was the territory of The British Government. There were too many secrets he knew he was not allowed to see.

Mycroft stood at the window, looking down on Pall Mall, a snifter in his hand. He looked up and smiled wistfully at Greg. “I’ll be in soon, my dear.”

“Can you come out? I’ll make tea. Hell, I’ll make breakfast. I suspect you’re starved.”

“I no longer know. I lost track of what I did and didn’t eat somewhere around ten last night.”

By then, Lestrade knew, the end would have been upon them.

“How do you feel about it?”

Mycroft shrugged, the brandy in the snifter swirling and sloshing with the gesture. “Mixed feelings. If you made breakfast, what could you offer me?”

“I planned for either outcome,” Greg said, with a crooked smile. “Continental breakfast with café au lait and fresh croissants, or a full-English fry up.”

Mycroft’s eyes fluttered shut, and he said in a slightly ill voice, “I don’t think my stomach would abide a full-English this morning.”

“What about sausage and eggs and toast, and leave the rest for some other time?”

Mycroft nodded, and came silently across the carpet to join his lover. Together they went out to the kitchen.

“How bad is it going to be?” Greg asked.

“Bad. The markets are falling—the pound’s plummeted. France and Germany already have people petitioning to leave the EU in their turn. I think we’re going to lose Scotland and Northern Ireland, and if we lose them we may lose Wales—even Cornwall. It would be a valid exit point for the Celtic territories.

“Wales, too? I thought they voted to leave.”

“Today’s vote to leave is tomorrow’s chance to form an all-Celtic-language new nation, and retain the advantages of the EU membership.”

“You really think so?”

“I have no idea.”

They were silent. The hiss and sizzle of sausage and egg and the chuckle of the heating kettle filled the room. The light was pale and delicate—fragile as porcelain.

Not looking at his lover, Greg said, “Are you going to be all right?”

“I am impervious,” Mycroft drawled—ending with a slight quaver and sharp silence.

“Mike…”

“I don’t know what comes next,” Mycroft said. “I want to damn them for it—all the bluff, stolid English people who can’t get around the fact that we lost the Empire, and in spite of winning two wars against all odds, we lost our…greatness. I understand why they voted to leave, Greg. I even…I might have, too. We are _England._ The precious stone in a silver sea. We survived the bombs and the rationing and the Mods and the loss of power. We’ve given so much…and stuffed into the EU we couldn’t seem to integrate and couldn’t seem to stand free. But, God, Greg. The outcome… We may have brought down the world for nothing more than our vanity. We may have set off the next recession. We may have cut the one vital tie that bound Europe together in _peace._ We may have burned away the vital tie that made us the UK.” His head drooped. “What shall it be like if together Ireland and Scotland are greater than we are?”

Greg shrugged, then plated the sausage and the eggs, putting the eggs neatly on the fried toast. He put the plates down, poured tea for them both, put out the milk and sugar, and sat at the little table. He cut a bite of sausage, ate it with relish, and said, softly, “If you don’t know—then no one does, Mike. What comes, comes. But in the meantime, there will always be an England—and my British Government.” He smiled, loving the worn, uncertain, shaken man sitting across from him, stirring milk into his tea with a moody gloom. “You dear old Eeyore.  Eat up, drink your tea, and come to bed, love. They’re grownups, no matter what you think. They were old enough to vote, and they’re old enough to get through a day of the aftermath.”

Mycroft nodded, then looked up into Greg’s eyes. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

“At least one union remains intact.”

Greg smiled. “The one I value the most, if you must know. Give me London, and England, and us, and I’ll be fine.”

Mycroft nodded, and smiled back…and set to his breakfast with renewed energy, secure in the one great union he could not live without.

 


End file.
